


Know thyself

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Crossover, Cruel jokes by the Valar, Cruel puns by the Valar, DWMP verse, Gen, M/M, Multi, Selectively NSFW, Selfcest, Smokin Imbibin and Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 10,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: What would happen if the canon Feanorions met their modern counterparts?If you guessed violence, confusion, and almost immediate selfcest, then you know both them and me pretty damn well.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Oromë, Curufin | Curufinwë/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 186
Kudos: 132





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this series of vignettes years ago on Tumblr, mostly poking fun at myself for having shifted from 'avoids all modern AUs' to 'writes heavily in modern AUs'. I guess this is having your cake and eating it too, or something. 
> 
> Some of these chapters are gen, some are a little edgier, some are completely NSFW. I'll give you a head's up for each.
> 
> All are absurd.

“What manner of place is this?” said Maglor, looking around curiously. “Be this the Void, or some other doom long awaited?”

“It has too many trees to be the Void,” said Curufin, who hadn’t loosened his grip on his sword. “What is in yon structure?”

“It makes a fearsome noise,” said Caranthir, grimacing at the _wub wub_ thrum that was coming from the building before them. “Perhaps a foul machinery at work - Maedhros, do you recognize some working of the Enemy?”

Maedhros, who had been sniffing the air warily, shook his head. “Not since Angband have I heard such a din and yet this does not ring quite to their cacophony.”

“Then let us forth,” said Celegorm, a reckless grin on his fair and savage face. “And see what savagery awaits - OWWHH. Who’s a good boy then???”

HIs brothers all leapt back as a huge hound came around the corner of the building, but Celegorm dropped to his knees with a clatter of armor and held out a gauntleted hand for it to sniff.

“I thought Huan had forsaken you,” said Caranthir, watching Celegorm get his plumed helmet sodden with dog spittle.

“He definitely forsook,” said Curufin. “Thoroughly. Unmistakably. Memorably. That can’t be the same - surely it’s not - ”

But Celegorm was talking nonsense to the dog and ignoring all of them.

“Let us away from this place,” said Maedhros sharply. “It gives me grave disquiet and if it is neither the Void nor a lair of the enemy but some place where our lost friends come to taunt us - ”

The front door opened and a handsome young man stepped out, his curly dark hair tousled, a glint of gold at his ears.

Maedhros dropped his sword.

The young man did a double take. “How did you - I thought you were upstai - Mae, what on earth, are those extensions? Is that armor? Oh my god, babe, where’s your hand?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, what did you expect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implied nsfw.

“Yo, buddy, get away from my do- holy shit.” Celegorm drew up short as the figure kneeling over Huan raised its head.

“Peace, boy, I know dogs better than you knew your mother’s tit as a babe.”

“ _That’s_ a gross way to put it,” said Celegorm, finding his tongue. “Uhh. Who - ”

But the stranger was now studying him just as intently, his head tipped to the side. “Thy face looks marked familiar. Have we met?”

Celegorm realized he had his head tilted to exactly the same side and resisted the urge to wave a hand slowly and see if the stranger did the same. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember meeting myself, bro.”

“Thyself? Are you - by the Horn, it is like looking in a fey mirror.” The stranger got to his feet, and though Celegorm had expected him to loom in his odd armor, when the stranger pulled his helmet off their eyes were at exactly the same level. “Save that I have no such strange jerkin.”

Celegorm looked down at his t-shirt. “Yeah, it’s not quite plate armor.”

There was a glint in the stranger’s eyes that Celegorm recognized a second too late. “Shall we swap?”

* * *

Curufin, who was not allowing Finrod anywhere near the pointy-eared interloper wearing his face, looked in some agony at the piles of clothing discarded on the stairs.

“Where did you say Celegorm went?” Finrod allowed Curufin to hang onto his wrist but was still craning his neck to try and see where Curufin’s armored doppelgänger had gone. “Is he - ”

A moan drifted from upstairs, followed by some muffled swearing in a language neither of them recognized.

“Is he okay?” Finrod stopped trying to look for sideways Curufin and stared up the landing, wide-eyed.

Another moan pierced the air, followed by a demand for, “Deeper, boy, I know you can take it.”

Curufin clapped his hands over his ears, not noticing that this left Finrod free to check the living room. “When I told him to go fuck himself,” he said, his eyes squeezed shut. “this is _not_ what I had in mind.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I did not raise you to throw bones on the floor!” barked Feanor, and then paused as he realized what he’d said.

The man who was both his son and definitely not his son wiped his mouth and looked at him with those eerie, glowing eyes. “Apologies,” he said, in a hoarse, rumbling voice that was what Maedhros might sound like if he smoked three packs a day for 70 years, “My manners escape me in these strange times.”

“They’ve escaped you since the late 400s,” said the man beside him, who might have been Maglor if Maglor wore scarlet cloaks and plumed hats - actually, Feanor thought, this non-son was the most recognizable. “Forgive my brother, milord, he has been through a lot.”

“Hrmph,” mumbled Feanor, his eyes drifting to the other taut warrior across from him, who was gripping a fork in rigid hands and had eaten nothing at all. “Well, I supposed it’s understandable.” The rigid warrior swallowed visibly as he spoke, and Feanor tried to think if he’d ever seen Curufin look so emotional as his double did right now. He’d always wondered if adult Curufin would look as like him as young Curufin did, and ridiculous hairstyle aside, he was not displeased. “Are you - are you not hungry?” He addressed not-Curufin in gentler tones and saw tears swim in pale grey eyes but the man remained mute, as if in shock. 

“Forgive my other brother,” said the man in the plumed hat, sighing. “He is struggling with emotion at seeing you.”

“Especially in such odd garb,” said the tall knight down the far end, whose cheekbones flushed in exactly the same way as Feanor’s fourth son’s. “What is that gibbet about your neck?”

“It’s a tie,” said Feanor, after a moment of trying to figure out what he meant. “You - I mean, my son got it for me for Father’s Day.”

Another tear tricked down the sharp cheek of the man across from him.

“Does anyone want dessert?” said Nerdanel brightly, coming through the door with a pie. There was a great scraping of chairs and clanging of sheathed swords knocking into furniture as all six men rose to their feet. “Oh, please stop doing that.”

“Madam,” said the eldest, his head bowed as if in supplication, “we would be honored.”

Feanor tried not to be annoyed that they didn’t bow every time _he_ walked into a room, but decided the way they all averted their eyes and tightened their fists when he spoke was close enough. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter courtesy of TheLionInMyBed

“Well, this is…nice,” Maedhros said carefully. He’d thought a lifetime of facing his father’s disapproving frown from across the dinner table had left him well equipped to handle the most uncomfortable social situations imaginable. Apparently, he _should_ have prepared by dressing for a Ren Faire, falling into a lawnmower and then glaring at his own reflection. 

Sat upon their couch, the…the _man_ did not look real, somehow too solid and too ethereal all at once. His eyes glowed from within, like a bad special effect and his armour looked like it would have taken a big budget movie’s costume department thousands of dollars and weeks worth of effort to achieve. He also, beneath the scars, beneath the steel and silk and what Maedhros desperately hoped was food colouring and corn syrup, looked exactly like Maedhros, down to the freckles. 

He had consented to sheath his sword, after much cajoling on Fingon’s part, but had kept all his armour on and his hand kept straying to the blade’s…haft? Pommel? _Handle_ , Maedhros decided firmly. And then realised, with that settled, there was nothing to keep him from speculating upon why he only had one hand to reach for it with. Looking at the space where the other ought to have been made Maedhros feel queasy, which didn’t seem unreasonable, and headachey which did. 

“Does anyone want coffee?” he offered, when they had all sat there in silence for fifteen minutes. Fingon looked vaguely concussed the way, Maedhros realised with some irritation, he always looked when he was fighting a losing battle with arousal. The man looked- blank. But blank in a way that Maedhros recognised with an ease that made the pounding in his temples redouble. Blank as he knew he went himself when he was trying not to show how badly one of his father’s dismissals had hurt or how sick with longing and bitter jealousy he had been during those awful five months after he and Fingon had broken up. 

He got up and made coffee even though no one had answered. Fingon took his black and Maedhros made it for his double with milk and sugar, the way he took it himself; if this was some kind of horrible hallucination, he might as well play along. 

Keeping the coffee table between himself and their guest, Maedhros set the cup down and slid it towards him and then, sick of being made to feel like an interloper in his own apartment, by his own self, apparently, dropped into their big window seat at his boyfriend’s side. 

And was, just as quickly, dropped to the floor by three hundred pounds of metal and distressingly solid muscle. And blades, he realised as one was pressed to his throat. He tried to suppress a whimper and wasn’t sure that he succeeded. 

“And what are _you_?” the- the- their visitor snarled into his ear. The voice was rougher, the accent strange, but still recognisable as his own. “You cringing, gutless thing, did the Enemy fashion you in mockery?“

There did not seem to be a sensible answer to that question, and even if there had been, Maedhros could not have made it with all the air knocked out of him. 

Fortunately, Fingon chose that moment to hit the other him with a lamp. It had been, Maedhros thought dreamily, a housewarming present from Turgon but he’d always hated it. At least something good had come out of this, even if the blow itself seemed to have no effect. The- the _him_ shook shards of glass out of his hair and gave Fingon a look that was more curious than anything else. He did _not_ remove the knife. 

“You’re ruining it!” Fingon yelled, brandishing what was left of the lamp. “I’ve been dreaming of this since high school and you are _ruining_ it.”

“Don’t distress yourself,” said the stranger and, just as their attempts to hide their hurt were the same, so were their ‘Oh shit I’ve pissed off Fingon' looks. Maedhros scrambled out from under him and got the couch between them, hoping it would provide more defence than the coffee table had. 

“ _You_ distressed me. Don’t you _dare_ attack my boyfriend. And also,” Fingon added as an afterthought, “Don’t call him cringing and gutless.”

“As you say, sire,” said the other him and, with unsettling grace, went from his predatory crouch to taking one knee upon their tatty rag rug. “How would you have me serve?”

“We’re having a threesome. Right now. I’m going to get the lube and the notes and-” Fingon coughed. “-other supplies I’ve prepared for this eventuality. You two get naked.” He sprinted for their bedroom and then skidded to a halt in the doorway. “And no killing each other!”

Maedhros contemplated bolting after him but he wasn’t sure he wanted to risk antagonising himself further. 

But the other him only shrugged and sheathed his knife. "You heard the king. Help me with my armour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kept Lion's British spelling as an homage to her (and my complete unwillingness to do any additional work.)


	5. Chapter 5

“I’m just grabbing a spare pillow,” called Nerdanel over her shoulder as she moved into the study. “I’ll be back in a - oh _heavens._ ” She jumped and laid a hand to her heart as a hulking figure got to its feet before her from where it had been lurking in the dark. “I thought you were in the tent with the others, can I help you?”

The broad-shouldered warrior bowed his great blond head and knelt before her. “I know thou art not the lady mother I left in Aman,” he said, in what would be exactly Celegorm’s voice, if Celegorm had gotten much higher scores on his SAT verbal. “And yet thy face is hers, a face I have not seen since I was young and unblooded, and my heart misgives - ” His voice broke, and tears spilled down his handsome, ferocious face. “I am _sorry_ ,” he whispered, and held her small, calloused hands in his big, scarred ones. “I am so sorry, please, please - ”

Nerdanel knew this ancient knight was not her son, knew her son was asleep across town wearing sweatpants with HOT ASS across the rear, and yet she was close to weeping herself to see how this alien child’s leather-clad shoulders shook with the force of his emotion.

Instinct won out. “Oh, sweetheart. Do you need a hug?”

“Yes,” said Celegorm the Fair, butcher of Beleriand, and buried his face in her sweater.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, the next gen is here too

Curufin tried to look askance at the brawny, handsome man standing before him but couldn’t quite manage it, mostly because the man was taller than him and his biceps were a little unnerving.

“So thou art the father I never knew,” said Celebrimbor, studying him. 

“The father you never had,” corrected Curufin. “I swear to god I have no children. Not even slightly.” He was certain of and deeply content with this fact, which made Celebrimbor’s appearance all the more unsettling. 

“I can vouch,” volunteered Finrod. “But Curvo, look at him - he looks like you…”

“Not much like me,” said Curufin, trying not to feel jealous. “He’s got bigger, um - he’s taller.” 

Celebrimbor blushed and looked down at his strong brown hands. “Forgive me if I seem ill at ease,” he murmured, “But, my Lord Felagund, I had last heard of your death on Tol-in-Gaurhoth…”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Finrod, whose own color was rather high at being called ‘Lord’. “I can see how that would be disturbing.”

“And what about your father,” said Curufin loudly, feeling a reluctant loyalty to his double and a need to arrest both Finrod and Celebrimbor’s blushes. “You haven’t mentioned when you last saw _him_.”

“He’s alive,” said Celebrimbor vaguely. “I think.”

“Hmm,” said Curufin, narrowing his eyes. He had been pleased that his doppelgänger was across town so that he couldn’t watch Finrod with unnerving intensity while Finrod smiled self-consciously and tried to talk to him about the weather - but at the same time, he felt a flicker of sympathy for himself. What kind of son didn’t know if his father was dead or alive?

Then Celebrimbor pulled out a small wire contraption from his pocket and Curufin forgot all else, even the way Finrod hadn’t been able to stop touching his throat in front of not-Curufin.

“Is that an automaton? Is it a _lizard_? Wow! Look at those gears, they’re _minuscule,_ let me get my hand loop.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I see some things are the same, no matter the world,” said not-Curufin, watching Finrod with meteorite eyes.

“Sorry?” Finrod tried keep his voice from cracking and almost succeeded, but the intensity of Curufin - _not-_ Curufin’s gaze was making him hot under the collar. “What do you mean?”

“You are equally liable to arrange your person in ridiculous attire.” Not-Curufin traced a gloved finger down Finrod’s argyll sleeve and Finrod only kept from shivering by sheer force of will. 

“And you are the same in all universes as well,” said Finrod lightly, meeting not-Curufin’s eyes now, and feeling a familiar warm rush of satisfaction at his swallowed breath. “Always quick to point out perceived flaws.”

“Perhaps I should be admiring myself, then,” murmured not-Curufin. “Rather than you.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Admiring me?” Finrod smiled, and not-Curufin took a step closer. He was still shorter than Finrod but radiated a surety born of, from what Finrod had understood, centuries of leadership and violence. He smelled of leather and metal, and the proximity of him made Finrod light-headed and a bit afraid.

“Of course I am admiring you,” said not-Curufin in low, dangerous tones. “It is so patently what you desire.”

Finrod pressed a hand to his flaming cheeks, his heart thundering in his chest. “I - ”

“Right, break it the _fuck_ up,” snapped jeans- and polo-clad Curufin, appearing behind him. “Paws off him you creepy, murdering weirdo, I _will_ take a page from Fingon’s book and hit you with a lamp.” He put his hands on his hips. “He’s _mine_.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wildly, wildly NSFW.

It was a unique pleasure, Celegorm noted, to have one’s cock buried in the throat of one’s possibly malevolent but no less delectable double.

“If this is the torment I am to suffer in the Void,” he said, digging his fingers into shaggy blond hair and dragging himself closer, “then by the taint of every Valar, chain me to the wall.”

His young counterpart tried to say something snide - Celegorm could tell by the look in his eyes - but was unable to thanks to the grip Celegorm had on his ears.

“Less talking, more putting that mouth to work.” He groaned and briefly wished they had an audience. “If this is what I look like taking a cock, then no wonder I - ”

In the next moment, Celegorm found himself flying through the air. It was novel, he thought dreamily before colliding with the wall, but he had not been so effectively taken off guard since -

The sight he saw as he slid down the wall and raised his eyes to his assailant effectively stopped his train of thought.

It very well near stopped his heart.

* * *

“Get off him!” roared Oromë, and threw the stranger across the room. He cared for nothing but the strength of the grip the stranger had on Celegorm’s hair and the choked sounds Celegorm was making, cared for nothing but Celegorm’s evident pain and distress. He dropped to the ground beside him, terrified and bewildered, and caught Celegorm’s hands.

“Are you okay, are you hurt, let me call the police - ”

“No,” choked Celegorm, wiping his mouth. “’s not like that. Shit. I’m fine - I forgot - Listen, _listen,_ I swear it isn’t cheating if it’s with yourself.”

Oromë felt dark fear rise in him. Had Celegorm suffered an injury to the head? What nonsense was he talking?

There was a sound behind him and he remembered the assailant. He spun quickly, ready to rend the intruder limb from limb should he be mustering an attack.

What he saw instead was a naked and scarred man with long pale hair kneeling before him. He was shaking from head to foot and holding out his tattoed forearm like it was a sacrifice.

“My lord,” he whispered in cracked, broken tones. “My lord, _how…”_ He raised his face and Oromë backed up into the wall.

“Aldaron,” said the other Celegorm, and pressed his forehead to the ground. “Ai, Aldaron, have mercy.”


	9. Chapter 9

The Ambarussa stared at them. Amrod and Amras stared back.

“Where’s mine?” Amras said, after a pause.

Amrod craned his neck. “Maybe behind - hm, nope, doesn’t look like it. Maybe this _is_ yours. Hi, uh, sir. Are you me or him?”

The gaunt and staring stranger with their face said nothing.

Amrod coughed and tried again. “Um. Are you Amrod or Amras?”

“Yes,” said the stranger, hoarsely.

“This is bullshit,” said Amras. “It’s like those people who who get us one birthday gift and expect us to _share_. It’s cheaping out is what it is.”

“We’re just going to have to make do with him anyway,” said Amrod. “Everyone else has been taken.”

“Maybe in the…other place there’s only one of us,” said Amras.

“You mean, maybe our egg didn’t split during meiosis over there?”

“Yeah,” said Amras, after staring at his brother in his ‘stop being painfully boring’ way for a while. “Or maybe like. One soul two bodies is just one body over there.”

“I do not share a soul with you, assface, I have my own. Sure of it.”

Amras flicked his hair and tried to look like Maglor. “You definitely don’t have the soul of a poet.”

They turned back to the hollow-eyed warrior. His long red hair hung in dreadlocks to his waist and he wore black paint smeared around his eyes like a mask. Bits of fur were knotted around his body with leather cord, and he looked far less human than the rest of their guests, none of whom looked particularly human to begin with. He was distinctly creepy looking but also, somehow, exactly like them.

“…Ambarussa?” said Amrod, experimentally.

The silver eyes flickered and then the snarled head bowed.

“Nice guess.” Amras held out a hand. “Wanna get a sandwich?”

The Ambarussa took his hand carefully, and they saw his fingers in their rawhide gloves were shaking.

Amras squeezed his hand carefully and then tugged him to the kitchen. “Okay. Let’s feed it and then see if it knows how to catch a frisbee.”


	10. Chapter 10

“I knew it,” said Celegorm immediately. “Knew it. Called it. Didn’t I call it?”

“He did,” said Curufin, who was watching from as far away as possible to avoid the steaming entrails heaped on the door mat. “Much as I hate to admit it, he said so ages ago.”

“And who’s laughing now? My boyfriend is - ”

“I am not,” said Oromë.

“A God,” said Celegorm jubilantly. “I win! Everyone else go home, mine is the best.”

The other Celegorm was still kneeling by his gift, his hands and forearms wet with blood. “I cannot undo what I have done, nor would I wish to. I recant no oaths but for certain deeds I may offer regrets. The thing with the stag and the Valaroma, for example. And given this opportunity, I might begin to restore -”

“Listen,” said Oromë desperately. “Your…me is probably wandering about elsewhere, wondering where his incredibly generous offering of guts is. Maybe you could go find him.”

“He does not wander,” said the other Celegorm, his eyes glowing. “He _rides_.”

“Hot,” breathed Celegorm.

“Where did you even get these entrails?” asked Oromë, resisting the urge to add, “Put them back immediately.”

“I hunted them,” said the other Celegorm, after a pause. “Was that a trick question?” He proffered his rich-smelling gift, and they saw that rather than the pile it had appeared it was fashioned as an intricate garland, albeit one of intestine and gristle.

It dripped. 

“Don’t be rude, your divineness,” said Curufin, grinning from his perch on the bannister. “Take your offering and thank the nice man.”


	11. Chapter 11

Haleth sighed. “Can you stop staring at me like that, please?”

“Did I ever look at you that creepy?” Caranthir scowled at his heavy browed double, who was hunched in the corner of their kitchen with both hands resting on a double-headed battle-axe. “You should have punched me in the face.”

“Couldn’t reach.” Haleth chewed her sandwich and kept one eye on the hulking knight in the corner. “Otherwise solid advice. Hey, do you want to come over and talk? Otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to point that glare at the wall, it’s putting me off my tuna.”

The armored Caranthir grunted, hesitated, then propped his axe against the stove and clanked over to the breakfast nook. 

“I believed thee dead,” he growled. “And here thou art, younger than ever I knew thee. Where hast thou been hiding? Why did thou feelst the need to so deceive me?”

“Catch up,” said Caranthir loudly. “You are not in your world, you are the D&D version of me, and she is not _your_ Haleth.”

“Not anyone’s,” put in Haleth. “Pass the mustard.”

Caranthir and Caranthir reached for the bottle at the same time and Caranthir drew back just in time before his fingers were engulfed by a gauntleted hand. 

“I saw Felagund here lurking,” said the other Caranthir, clutching the mustard bottle. “Did thee prefer his lands to mine in this world as well?” His face, curtained by shaggy black hair, was starting to go red. 

Caranthir looked taken aback. “Who, Finrod?” He looked at Haleth. “I don’t think so…”

Haleth grinned and said through her mouthful of sandwich, “Nah man, it was your doppelbud right here who chose to plant his flag in Finrod’s earth, if you know what I - ”

“What?” said the other Caranthir, just as Caranthir said, “Shut UP, Hal.”

“Art thou both mocking me?” said the other Caranthir in dangerous tones, redder than ever and reaching for his battle axe. “Wretched pixies, I knew both must be, in bizarre amalgams of - ”

“Chill,” said Haleth, finishing her sandwich. “We’ll help. Moryo, you still got some of that Humbolt gold on you?”

* * *

In the back of the van, the other Caranthir stretched, far more at ease than they had yet seen him. He exhaled a long breath as they had shown him and visibility in the van decreased significantly.

“Vana’s pipeweed grows strong here indeed,” he rumbled. “Mmm. Whoa.”

“Pass the bong,” said Caranthir, reaching, and his double passed him the helmet they’d been smoking out of.

“Hast thou ever really looked at thine hand?” The other Caranthir stared at the gauntlets in his lap. “ ‘s just. Wild, so ‘tis.”

“Amen, brother,” said Caranthir, inhaling.

“So tell me about other Haleth,” said Haleth, blinking through the smoke. “How much ass did she kick?”

“All of it,” said the other Caranthir. “ ‘Struth. She kicked all of it.”


	12. Chapter 12

“This is precisely the reprieve I have been looking for,” said Maglor, sweeping his cloak off and settling himself on the oddly shaped divan in the front room of their hosts’ home. “After untold centuries of enduring only you lot, I shall finally have a chance for intelligent conversation.” He closed his eyes and hummed happily, his fingers tapping a lively beat on the hilt of his swords. “With myself.”

“It’s not all you may think,” said Maedhros, picking up an odd sort of pipe and turning it upside down to see if anything fell out. “I’ve been having conversations with you for untold centuries and I can tell you it wears thin.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you’re not more excited!” Maglor flicked Maedhros in the arm. “Haven’t you always wondered what you’re like from the outside?”

“So far, from the outside I am violent, disturbed, and interested in stealing my boyfriend from myself,” said Maedhros darkly. He still had a bruise on his neck from where his double had wrapped a powerful fist around it.

“Well, that’s you,” said Maglor dismissively. “It’s going to be different with _me_.”

“I dunno,” said Maedhros. “I can tell you what you’re like from the outside and it’s 50% not bad and 50% pain in the ass.”

“Oh, go put makeup on your bruises, you gutless thing,” said Maglor. “ _I’m_ going sing a duet with myself.”

* * *

It was, everyone agreed, a performance for the ages.

Sitting mutely on the couch, clutching a mug of hot cocoa, the Ambarussa was staring straight ahead, tears streaming down his face. The twins sitting at his feet were strangely silent as well, and Amras had his head buried in his arms.

“I take back everything I said about wishing you all hadn’t come,” said Maedhros hoarsely, as Fingon wiped his nose. “And I take back everything bitchy I said to you, Mags, that was incredible.”

One-handed Maedhros did not say as much but he grunted and jerked his head in a not entirely aggressive way. In the corner, Finrod was still clapping as if he’d forgotten what else his hands were for. Uncharacteristically, neither Curufin was stopping him.

“Perhaps,” said the bloodier Celegorm, rising from Huan’s side where he and the dog had been sitting in almost identical trances, “it was for just such an occurrence that Eru - ” he spat instinctively, and then looked apologetic as both Curufins glared at him, “ - that Eru sent us here. Even the nightingale witch would have been hard pressed to top that.”

* * *

“I dunno,” said Maglor later, to Caranthir. “I don’t really know why everyone made such a big deal? He was actually kind of off-key.”

* * *

“In truth,” Maglor confided to the Ambarussa, who was back to ignoring him and everyone else, “I did not wish to say so to such a young and unformed musician, but his voice was fairly weak. Untrained. Didn’t you notice?”

* * *

“Yeah, honestly?” Maglor handed Daeron a muffin over the counter. “Pretty over-rated, given his supposed experience. And he sounded _nothing_ like me.”

* * *

“To be honest,” said Maglor, tuning his harp. “It made me question if he was really my double. I wish people would stop talking about it like I could not recreate a high caliber performance on my own.”

* * *

“Maybe,” said Maglor, “it’s time that they go home? Just a thought.”

* * *

“What about those whispers of a silmaril in, um, Estolad, was it? Somewhere. Anyway, I think we should be getting back. The oath, after all, you know how passionate I am about it.”

* * *

“No, we’re not going to perform together again. _Stop asking_.”

“I told you,” said Maedhros, as Maglor hung up his phone and threw it across the room. “I told you you weren’t so great to hang out with.”

“Shut _up_ , Mae.”


	13. Chapter 13

Aredhel frowned at the text she’d received as she turned up the drive at Mithrim Lake. “This was such a weird message to send,” she mumbled. “What’s with the _Attack of the Clones_ reference? And why did he sign it ‘guess which one’?”

It was useless to try and fathom her cousin’s motivations. She sighed, pocketed her phone, and was just about to knock when a figure came through the front door. She abruptly took three large steps back.

“Aaah. What are you wearing? Are you _larping?_ And after all that shit you gave Maglor in high school… What the - ”

“Irissë!” cried the leather-clad figure and wrapped her into a rib-cracking hug. It was unfortunately a literal description for this man, however much he looked like Celegorm, hugged with a power that Celegorm could never have mustered no matter how many tires he dragged around the back yard.

“Oh no,” squeaked Aredhel and blacked out.

* * *

When she swam back to consciousness she was greeted by a familiar sharp voice, though it didn’t seem to be directed at her. 

“Oh, very well done indeed,” it was snapping. “You greet our lady cousin by nearly killing her - and I thought you had enough guilt about your role in allowing harm to befall her. Too much to hope she’ll forgive you now, this is going to be like the post-Losgar reunion all over again, I hope you remember how stupid you looked with a broken nose.”

Aredhel blinked until her vision cleared and saw what appeared to be Curufin sitting on the grass beside her, propping her head up and crushing some sort of herb beneath her nose. He too was dressed in leather and steel and had a scarlet cloak draped over his shoulders. He looked older somehow, gaunter, and rather than the Mitt Romney coif that Curufin had preferred since age ten, wore his hair in a braid that fell past his waist.

“Yer not Curufin,” she muttered. “Tha’s not a regulation haircut.”

The non-regulation Curufin looked affronted. “Milady, I assure you I have borne the name far longer than that scrawny black-haired shrew has had claim to it.”

Aredhel tried to sit up and saw the Celegorm who had hugged her sitting forlornly on the steps, looking hangdog and remorseful. “ ‘m sorry, Ireth - milady,” he said, when she met his gaze. “I forgot that hereabouts you are less sturdy than the cousin I knew.”

“Your ribs appear to be bruised rather than broken,” said non-regulation Curufin, still propping her up with a disconcertingly strong arm. “I’d say go to Felagund for a proper diagnosis as he is more a healer than I, but from what this one was telling me about tee-aying, he will probably do more harm than good.” 

“And when thou art fully recovered,” said the Celegorm, a sparkle in his eyes that was more familiar to Aredhel than anything else about him, “pray tell us - in detail, if you would - all this we’re heard about you stealing Turgon’s wife.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything involving both Celegorms is automatically NSFW. This especially so.

The alien creature who was also Celegorm wrapped arms around Celegorm’s chest and held him fast as he sank back against the headboard. His murmur was for Celegorm’s ear but his eyes never left Oromë.

“Shall I ready you for him?”

Celegorm shivered, the arms around him like iron bands. Much as he hated to admit it, his Elf Self (as Fingon was cheerfully calling them) was far stronger than him and he could do no more than tremble against that powerful chest. Pale hair, braided with grim beads, slipped past his cheek and he could feel his double’s breath on the side of his face. 

“I _am_ ready. Or – wait, hang on.” Celegorm tried to sit up.

Because Oromë was watching them both and for the first time in years, Celegorm was finding him singularly inscrutable. He was taking in the two of them with an intensity that usually lit a fire under Celegorm’s skin, but it seemed like he was guarding his reaction so closely that even Celegorm, who loved and knew him so well, could not read it. 

And still Oromë did not say anything. 

Celegorm didn’t like it. He gave a twist and laid an elbow to the other Celegorm’s ribs. It was likely no more than a tap to the boulder-muscled warrior at his back but he felt the arms around him loosen. Celegorm sat up, limbs akimbo over his double’s lap, and reached for Oromë.

“What’s going on in there, boss?” He tapped Oromë gently between the eyes. “You okay?”

Oromë still didn’t say anything, but his inscrutability was starting to slip. Celegorm leaned in and laid his forehead to Oromë’s. “Ey, baby. Talk to me – we don’t have to do this. I can tell this clone in the bad wig to fuck off if you want.” His double gave a grunt of offense or amusement, but Celgorm ignored him. He cupped Oromë’s face in his hands until Oromë finally met his eyes and _then_ Celegorm could get a read on him at last. He laughed out loud. “Aha, fuck, _that’s_ familiar. You’re guilty about how into this you are.”

“No.”

Celegorm grinned. “Yeah.” 

“…Yeah.”

“Hah!” Celegorm kissed him. “Did you ever think you’d get two of me?” 

“Only in some very, very regrettable dreams.”

“You are my favorite gross pervert, I’m so proud of you.”

“As long as it doesn’t bother you.” Oromë bowed his head and nuzzled into Celegorm’s neck, then raised his head and looked behind him. Celegorm turned too. The Elf him was watching them with a strange look on his face, a mixture of confusion and something rather terrible.

Celegorm realized it was loneliness.

Oromë must have seen it too for he stretched out an arm and drew the other Celegorm up so that his chest was pressed to Celegorm’s back, their arms and legs sliding together. The other Celegorm reached out an arm as well, the left one, the one inscribed with the dark sigil on the underside of his wrist. When Oromë’s fingers brushed over it, Celegorm felt the body behind him shudder like a repressed sob.

When Oromë leaned back to kiss him, Celegorm felt less jealousy than profound empathy as he felt a tear slide down the cheek pressed to his.

Then the moment passed. Oromë released the strange hunter and Celegorm turned so he could lick the tear from his cheek. The other Celegorm pulled away and laughed before putting his teeth to Celegorm’s ear. 

“Shall we give our lord what he has dreamed of?” came the low, rough whisper. Before Celegorm could answer he was being soundly kissed by someone who tasted of blood and ozone and himself. 

Being slipped his own tongue should have felt far odder than it did. 

Perhaps predictably, his other self knew exactly how he liked it, and both of them liked the appreciative growl Oromë gave as he watched them.

“So, shall I prepare you for him?” asked the other Celegorm again and Celegorm felt a little offended by the implication. Even Oromë gave up on trying to make him take things slow about 70% of the time. 

“You don’t need to ready me,” he shot back. “Trust me, I know I can take him.”

His double laughed, showing long white teeth. “Yes, I believe your fair arse is very accommodating,” he murmured, and Celegorm let out a shuddering breath as he felt Oromë’s fingers at the nape of his neck. “But I’m not talking about you taking just _him_.” His eyes flickered once more to Oromë like a bright light he couldn’t draw his gaze from and this time Oromë stared back. “I know you can take him with naught more than spit and blood – but this time, sweetness, you’re going to be taking _me_ , too.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another marvel by TheLionInMyBed.

“We’re out of whiskey,” called the thing that he refused to share his name with as Maedhros let himself into the apartment. In happier days he’d have begun his evening by staring dinner or, if it wasn’t his turn to cook, trying to get some marking done before Fingon got home and distracted him. Not glaring at his evil doppelganger, sprawled in a pile of cushions and broken glass on his living room floor. 

“That’s what happens when you drink it all.” He considered making a point of not picking up the shards, came to the conclusion that if he didn’t they’d just stay there (disgusting) or Fingon would have to do it (unacceptable), sighed, and went to get a trash bag.

“The laws of hospitality-”

“Only extend so far, especially when you keep trying to maul your host. Don’t try that old timey shit on me, I minored in history. If you’re going to keep staying here, you need to get a job.”

Maedhros was braced for an argument. One in which they both knew who was right and both knew who would win by virtue of superior physical strength and an utter indifference to shame. But his double only shrugged. “Is there much call for a cripple with no deeds to his name? No…‘employment history’?”

“Don’t you worry,” Maedhros snapped. Hearing the other him imitate business jargon was far more disquieting than his poetic descriptions of battlefields but he did his best to hide it. “I’ll find something.”

* * *

“So do you have any relevant experience?” said the interviewer. She was a hard-faced woman in her forties or so Maedhros guessed - he wasn’t particularly good at judging the ages of mortals - with an expression that said she’d seen it all and wasn’t much impressed. 

That composure was fast crumbling, like the timbers of a Falmari ship put to the torch, under the withering heat of his glare. “I lead my people through five centuries of hopeless war. I suffered tortures unimaginable at the hands of a corrupt, all-powerful entity. I built and supplied the mightiest fortress in Beleriand upon Himring’s icy, desolate slopes. _This_ is as nothing to me.” For good measure, he smiled horribly. The sooner she threw something at him and called for the guards, the sooner he could go back to drinking, seducing Fingon, and torturing himself. Either self - he wasn’t fussy. 

* * *

Maedhros, drinking horrible mall coffee, stayed tactfully out of sight of the Sunglass Hut but kept an ear out for any screaming.

There wasn’t any and he leapt out of his skin, spilling lukewarm caramel macchiato over his shoes when his double appeared at his elbow, looking slightly more grim than usual. 

“Did it go badly?” Maedhros said with a horrible, petty sort of glee. “Don’t worry, there are lots of other places hiring.” If anyone deserved to work retail, it was the creature that had stolen his apartment, his boyfriend and, reportedly, a priceless jewel that contained all light and good in the world.

“No,” said his evil clone in its hoarse, creepy voice.

Maedhros wasn’t going to stand for that. “Fingon won’t stand for that,” he said.

Evil Maedhros smirked - they both knew Fingon was the only weapon in his arsenal, while Evil Maedhros carried a small armoury’s worth of very literal weaponry. “I do not refuse. I meant that our quest is at an end.”

“They _hired_ you?”

“They took me as their liege. I’m their new ‘regional manager’.” 


	16. Chapter 16

“I can’t wait,” said Celegorm, bouncing on his heels. “This is gonna be so good. He’s gonna be so hot. Does he have any, like special features?”

“Hist and wait,” said his double, dropping a heavy hand on his shoulder and bearing him back to the ground. “Struth, I know now how my parents felt, do you never hold still?”

“Nah,” said Celegorm. “Does he have horns? Does he have fangs? Does he really eat raw guts? My Orome was a vegetarian for a year in the late nineties, if you can believe it. Does he have a knife bigger than this one?”

“Give that me,” said the other Celegorm, snatching back the blade that had somehow made it from his waist into his double’s curious hands. “If I did not know better I would say this was my punishment rather than the void, being forced to nanny my tiny worst self.”

“I ain’t tiny, you cuck,” said Celegorm, and then before his other could decide to scalp him, “Hohmygod. Is that him??”

A great figure was looming out of the warm summer dusk. The shoulders were as broad and familiar as the ones Celegorm knew and loved; the terrible and beautiful face was still, somehow, the one he woke to most mornings. But that was where the resemblance ended. 

“Fuck,” whispered Celegorm. “Horns.”

“Antlers,” corrected his double, and dropped to his knees, bowing his head. “Aldaron.”

The figure nodded, its eyes a golden glow that drew the fireflies even as the scent of blood and ancient earth wafted from its faintly steaming body. It spoke, a word of greeting or condemnation. The Elf who was Celegorm laughed merrily before saying, “Oh, arsefuck,” and grabbing for his human counterpart who had just slumped sideways, blood streaming from his ears.

* * *

“So,” said Orome, daubing Celegorm’s forehead with a cloth. It was a day later and Celegorm’s hearing had finally returned, though he still went over all nauseous at the smell of cooking meat. “Literally couldn’t handle me, huh?”

Celegorm plucked at his sleeve. “I never thought I’d say this,” he rasped, his voice raw from screaming, “but I am so glad that usually there’s not more than one of you.” 

Orome smiled and kissed his hand appreciatively. But it didn’t keep him from whistling for Huan to come in wearing his new Bullwinkle hat so he could see Celegorm faint again. 


	17. Chapter 17

Having watched himself rapturously transported for forty-five minutes, Maglor was forced to admit that it was not as appealing a look as he’d long thought. In fact, it was kind of unbearable. **  
**

The Elven bard pressed his palms to his heart, closed his eyes, and swayed, a smile lighting his face. Maglor looked away, embarrassed. God. Surely he didn’t look that silly when he was listening to or performing music, did he? The bard’s long hair was trailing into his face unheeded and Maglor touched his own ponytail self-consciously. Maybe it was, as his father had long insinuated, time for a trim.

“What’s going on up here? I hadn’t heard anything for almost an hour so I thought I should check and make sure you two hadn’t killed each other or - ” Maedhros drew up as he rounded the door. “Did he get tired of messing with your guitar?”

He had, calling it ‘a little simplistic, don’t you think?’ “No,” said Maglor. “He found something else to be inspired by.”

Maedhros looked at the swaying Elf, who still had his eyes closed, in some concern. “Was it LSD?”

“This invention,” whispered the other Maglor, opening his eyes at last, his headphones lopsided on his head. “This is marvelous. It is magical; it is the Great Song and the Great Mechanic come together in one; it is the soul of the world contained within a simple device, oh, if my father could have seen this, it is - ”

“It’s a Walkman, dude,” said Maglor. “Not even a good one. I tried to tell you, you should really listen to an MP3 player of some kind instea-”

But he turned his back on himself and continued to sway, clutching the old yellow Walkman in one long-fingered hand.

“He must be listening to something really good,” said Maedhros, who looked like he was fighting the urge to laugh.

“He’s not,” said Maglor. “That thing hasn’t been cracked open since the 90s.”

“Oh god. So he’s listening to - ”

“Limp Bizkit,” said Maglor. “Yep.”


	18. Chapter 18

“What is this?” The other Maedhros appeared in the doorway, holding a coffee filter.

“It’s a coffee filter, babe – erm, Maedhros.” Fingon glanced quickly at his boyfriend. Maedhros had registered his dislike of Fingon using endearments on the other him via rigid distressed faces whenever it happened. He was halfway through one now. “Do you want coffee?” 

The other Maedhros thought. “No. Do you have alcohol?”

“We’re out,” said Fingon’s Maedhros. “You drank all the – Doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t,” said Fingon with encouraging cheer. “Because that’s why we’re going to the party!”

“Party,” said Maedhros, like he was tasting the word for the first time. “I cannot say I much enjoyed the last party I was at.” 

“What _do_ you enjoy,” muttered Maedhros.

The Elf him smiled. His teeth were far longer than Maedhros’ own and Maedhros knew better than to wonder about veneers. “Making love on a pile of the corpses of my enemies is particularly invigorating, I have found.” 

“That’s on me,” said Maedhros heavily. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

* * *

“Just aim for any of the cups. You might want to stand a bit closer to the table thoug- ”

It was a beautiful shot, high and arching and _fast_. Maedhros couldn’t have made it right-handed; the other him managed it left-handed while balancing a solo cup of gin on his steel prosthesis.

The ping-pong ball whizzed into the furthest cup, its momentum carrying it around the inside lip. Maedhros’s double smirked and slanted his eyes at Fingon.

Caranthir hooked the ball with a flinger and flicked it out of the cup before it stopped its wild spinning.

The smirk on the creature’s face dropped. His eyes blazed and Maedhros leaned casually against the wall to hide the fact that he he’d immediately stepped several paces back.

“Cheating,” the terrible figure croaked.

Caranthir shrugged and dipped the ball into the rinse cup.

The other Maedhros turned instinctively to Fingon and gestured across the table. “ _Cheating_ ,” he said again.

Fingon fidgeted. “Actually not? If it spins, you’re allowed to flick it out of the cup before it drops and take your throw - ”

“You did not tell me so.”

“Sorry,” whispered Fingon. 

Maedhros rolled his eyes but stayed safely back as that ferocious gaze was turned on him. “You’ll pick up on the finer details as you go, that’s how learning new things works.”

His double kept him pinned with his glare for several long seconds before turning back to Caranthir, who was repacking his bowl.

He set the pipe down and raised his eyebrows, looking bored. “Ready?” he asked, and threw before the other Maedhros replied.

When the pingpong ball stopped bouncing and was recovered from under a chair, they found it had been smashed so badly it resembled less a sphere than a scrambled egg.

“Unfortunately,” said Fingon gently. “That _does_ count as cheating.”

“Thou labeleth me a fraud?” said the other Maedhros in a quiet but deadly voice, and Fingon looked so worried that Maedhros felt the need to put himself between them.

“No one’s calling anyone anything,” he said, ignoring Fingon’s tugging on his back pocket. “Just enlightening you about the rules, right?”

“I do not take well to rules arbitrarily imposed,” said his doppelgänger. “And neither do I take well to being called a cheat.”

“I wasn’t,” said Fingon, from behind Maedhros’ right shoulder. “Oh for shit’s sake, Mae, move, he’s not going to eat me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You called me a cheat first, boss,” said Caranthir. “Just pretend I said it instead of Fingon and we’ll call it even.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You fuckin’ cheat.”

Maedhros braced himself for violence, but instead his double just looked over his shoulder, cocked his head a moment at Caranthir, then nodded.

“Fair enough,” he said, turning back to the table. He clicked his fingers at Maedhros. “Fetch me a replacement pong.”


	19. Chapter 19

The old Subaru screamed up the hill at the end of the lane. Amrod screamed as well, both to keep it company and because he was pretty sure they were all going to die. 

“Don’t distract him, assbutt,” said Amras from the back seat, reaching around to clamp a hand over his brother’s mouth. “He’s getting better!”

That, Amrod considered, was a matter of opinion. Initially it had seemed like a great joke, to teach a hell-Elf from another dimension how to drive. But five minutes into trying to describe to himself the difference between ‘clutch’ and ‘brake’, Amrod had known it was a mistake, possibly a fatal one. His twin, however, still seemed to consider it a fabulous experiment. 

Amrod covered his eyes. 

Their terrifying triplet had at least conceded to lay his curved sword on the dashboard rather than keep it in his lap, but the hands that gripped the steering wheel and gearshift were still clad in rotten leather and a knife was clenched between jagged teeth. The Ambarussa ground the gears, ground his fangs against the blade, and switched straight from first into third.

The car stalled.

The car made a noise that was definitely going to void the warranty on its transmission. The Ambarussa made a noise that was most definitely a curse. “Okay,” warbled Amrod, “now shift back into neutral -”

“We were always taught,” came a deep, rasping voice, “that the neutral position was the weak one.” A heavy metal hand came down on the open window, and Amrod jumped so badly that the seatbelt locked against his chest. “Ambarussa,” growled the tall, red-headed creature who was both their eldest brother and definitely not. “Get out of that conveyance.”

Amras looped his arms over the back of Amrod’s seat and gave a low whistle. “Dude,” he whispered. “He’s holding the whole car still.” 

The Ambarussa had clearly realized this as well, because he spat out his knife and glowered at his older brother. He locked gazes with him while pressing his foot to the accelerator, but the one metal hand and the one flesh one simply tightened slightly on the window as the smell of burning rubber filled the air.

“Out,” commanded the other Maedhros. “I shall not be responsible for you causing the death of little ones.” He might have added, “Not again,” under his breath, but Amrod couldn’t tell under the straining whine of the engine. 

It was anyone’s guess as to how the battle of the Elf wills would have gone, had Nerdanel not materialized out of nowhere at that very moment.

“Ambarussa!” she snapped, and all three of them froze. “What are you doing to my car? Pityo! Telvo! You only have your permits, you’re not allowed - Does he even have a license? - And you, sir, you are putting dents in the door! Off!” Maedhros quickly released his grip on the car, which lurched briefly forward and then stalled again. 

“Amabarussa!” shouted Nerdanel again. “Oh, you are so grounded.”

“Which of us, Ma?” said Amras, trying to look wide-eyed and innocent as he kicked a knife under the seat. “He was the one driving.”

“All of you,” said Nerdanel balefully, and even Maedhros cringed.


	20. Chapter 20

The grim stranger with Maedhros’s face let a lock of Fingon’s hair curl around his finger and stared down at his sleeping face with an uncommonly soft expression. He only ever looked this safe - this _soft_ in Fingon’s presence, but Maedhros suspected that the joint they’d been passing back and forth didn’t hurt.

“I have never seen it so short,” said the other Maedhros, his fingers touching first one curl and then another. “No memory that the mind can reach offers me a picture of it shorn so. Even in mourning he did not wear it this close cropped.” His fingers met the curve of Fingon’s ear and a slightly confused expression dropped onto his face like he was trying to fit a wrong piece into a near complete puzzle.

“How did he - how did yours wear it?”

“In heavy plaits hung with gold,” said his doppelgänger, his rough voice touched with reverence as one reading the text of a sacred book. “As prince he wrapped them with fine wire and let them flow behind him as he rode into battle. When he was king they fell to his waist and were strong enough to bind a man’s wrists…” His voice trailed off.

“Wow.” Maedhros looked down at his own sleeping Fingon and tried to imagine him clad in armor, wielding a sword, a crown set over shining braids. Fingon snuffled in his sleep and tucked his head against Maedhros’s chest. Maedhros buried his nose in Fingon’s sweet smelling hair and decided watching him with flowing braids would be fine but watching him ride into battle less so.

The other Maedhros was watching with a shuttered expression and Maedhros wordlessly passed him the joint. The alien echo of himself across the bed took a long drag and held it. Maedhros waited, but no smoke ever re-emerged.

He didn’t know what to say to the hollow loss in the other’s eyes, which made him feel both possessive and generous all at once. He settled for averting his eyes when the wrong Maedhros gently tugged the blanket over Fingon’s shoulders and felt better when Fingon didn’t roll away from him and into the other’s arms.

“It’s good hair,” he said at last, picking a bit of it off his tongue.

“It is,” agreed his double, absorbing more smoke.

“You two are being weird,” mumbled Fingon from between them. “But if you’re going to talk about what bits of me you like best, I can get naked again.”

Surely, Maedhros thought, all incarnations of himself would have the same response to such a proposition.

He unwrapped Fingon’s shoulders. “Okay.”

“Okay,” echoed the other Maedhros, and ate the rest of the joint.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was determined that Feanor did not come over with the others in this AU. But if he had...

Feanor had never be intimidated by anyone in his life, much less by himself, and he wasn’t going to start now.

Still, without it being at all fear-motivated, he kind of wished his double in the scarlet cloak would put the sword down.

It might scratch the walls, was all.

“Hardly so grand a fortress,” said the other Feanor, after long scrutiny of the window treatments. Feanor considered pointing out that the blinds were Hunter Douglas and top of the line. But then, this creature was from a time without decent conditioner much less designer Venetians, so he forbore to answer and just lifted an eyebrow condescendingly.

“But modest means aside, you have done well with your brood,” said the other Feanor, his voice softening as he took in the photos that lined the hallway. He ran a gloved finger over them and Feanor was nearly offended that his eccentric doppelgänger with the hippie haircut was checking for dust of all things, when he saw the wistful look in the other’s eyes.

It was one he recognized, father to father.

“They are good boys,” he said, not mentioning the various hair styles, romantic partners, and life choices to the contrary. To his knowledge his sons hadn’t killed anyone or lost any kingdoms, so he counted that as a win against the other him.

“Yes,” said the other Feanor quietly. “You have kept them well.”

“I’ve kept them all, certainly,” said Feanor, unable to resist. He had noticed the discrepancy at once, as could anyone who could count to six, and his double whirled on him, eyes flashing fire.

The sword was up again, moving quickly towards his throat, and Feanor grabbed a picture from the wall, telling himself he’d ask Curufin’s forgiveness later for smashing a picture of him over a deranged clone’s head.

But before he could do anything - 

“ _Whhhhhrrrrrrr_.”

The other Feanor let out an oath and leapt back, tripping over his scarlet cloak.

“Don’t be afraid,” said Feanor, securing the picture and his shaking hands behind his back. “It’s just the roomba.”

“I’m not afraid,” said the other Feanor quickly. “I just - What is it doing? It’s, it’s leaving fresh the ground behind it. A small carpet slave. How does it work? Is it - what mechanism - ” He dropped to his knees on the rug, watching in fascination as the round disc whuffled towards him. It caught the edge of his cloak and choked on it, and the other Feanor tugged it back, looking charmed. “Did you design this yourself? Are there more of its kind? How much of your soul did you pour into it?”

Feanor knelt with somewhat more dignity at his double’s side. He considered briefly taking credit for the invention of the automated vacuum, but instead said, “No, I got it at the Home Depot. But if we go out to my shop I can show you some automations I _have_ crafted myself.”

“Yes, let’s,” said the other Feanor, getting to his feet with a singing of chainmail. “And after, perhaps you can show me to this Home’s Deep.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since we do have only the one Feanor, we'll make the most of him.

Feanor put his head down, concentrated on his work, and tried to put the looming presence behind him out of his mind. It wasn’t that he objected to the company - he would be interested to get this strange visitor’s opinion on 21st century western engineering and how it compared to….wherever and whenever it was - but the silent staring was off-putting. He’d much rather engage in a straightforward exchange of ideas, but every time he’d attempted to interact with the tall stranger who was both his second youngest son and _not_ , he’d been greeted by a white face and staring, over-bright eyes.

“He’s not ready,” the blond visitor had said, the one who was spending an unnerving amount of time in Celegorm’s company and had even more unnerving dark stains on his gloves. “Beg pardon, A- milord. He has missed you. Him. He never quite recovered from - well, let us just say that he did not expect this. You. Him.” He struggled with the pronouns for a moment and then shrugged broad, leather-clad shoulders and turned to baste whatever was baking in the oven. It still had hair on.

So Feanor had shrugged too and gone to work in his shop, and the silent, scarlet-cloaked Curufin had followed him.

Feanor had felt vaguely unsettled for a while; then annoyed for perhaps five minutes; and then forgotten there was anything strange about it. He got wrapped up in a zircon sample and reached out absently for a tweezer that wasn’t there. He fumbled blindly, his eye still pressed to the microscope, and then felt the tool pressed into his questing fingers.

“Thank you,” he said, unthinkingly, and heard the rustle of a cloak sweeping over the floor as the stranger resumed his silent vigil.

It was, Feanor thought, like the tiny feral kittens Celegorm had filled their house with one summer. Attempt to approach and they would flee; carefully ignore and before long you’d feel an inquisitive paw on your leg. It was like pretending you didn’t want the professor to call on you. It was like -

It was like Curufin, as a child.

 _Attention_ , Feanor thought, his eye still fixed on the shining jewel under his lens, _when he is ready for it. Attention on his own terms only._

“Can you pass me the maglite? Ah - the dark metal tube. Yes. If you press the end - there, a light. You see?”

He’d half expected the other Curufin to jump back in alarm from the light, but instead he only studied it curiously, his eyes narrowing in professional curiosity. Then he handed it over and settled back to his quiet watch.

Time passed in the usual amorphous way it had when work was going well and all else was shut away. The light in the shop shifted imperceptibly, and Feanor hummed with pleasure to see how the facets of the gem changed to reflect the dusk. Periodically an unseen hand would pass him cloths or tweezers as needed, often before he asked for or lifted his own hand to seek them. A familiar mind was with him in that room, and before long Feanor lost any sense of strangeness. It was only when one Curufin handed him a pair of pliers from the left and another said, “It has a good ambiance” from the right that Feanor noticed anything was amiss. 

He sat back and looked from one son - long-haired, armored - to the other - sleekly coiffed, besweatered - and then back again between two identical pairs of grey eyes. He blinked a third pair and said, “Yes it does, doesn’t it?”

“What will you make of it?” said the long-haired one, very quietly, speaking for the first time.

“A drillbit, I thought,” said the other.

“That was the plan,” said Feanor, turning it over in his hands. “But that was before I saw it in a different light. Now I think it is destined to be something else.”

“Too beautiful for functionality?” said the Curufin who was 21 and familiar and had sat by his side on this bench since his feet couldn’t touch the floor.

“Nothing is too beautiful for functionality,” said the Curufin who was ageless and strange and sad and frightening and without a father.

Feanor nodded and nodded and said, “Let’s see what we can make of it.”


End file.
